


Prometheus Rising.

by Rahn (Rahndom)



Series: Justice Lords AU [3]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU, Justice League & Justice League Unlimited (Cartoons)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-08 16:05:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1134712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rahndom/pseuds/Rahn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Justice Lords AU. - Tim receives a rather interesting missive calling for a meeting at his parents' old house. There, he finds the foundations are still strong and the Titan has risen once more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prometheus Rising.

He receives – well, not really, he just wakes up after his normal afternoon nap and it’s there on his bedside table – a formal envelop with the oddest, most pompous calligraphy he has ever seen in his life, inside there is a piece of paper that feels soft to the touch as though it was manufactured out of cotton instead of normal tree core and bleach.

It is humbling and disturbing, of course.

 **‘Please, Detective,’**  the note states, forcing Tim to raise an eyebrow.  **‘Do be ready at midnight for I will be waiting. Your mother expects your presence. – A friend.’**

Tim is far too old to be trusting ‘friends’ he has not met before. So he simply rolls his eyes and throws both envelope and letter into his trashcan, where he proceeds to incinerate the shit out of it. Alfred won’t even raise an eyebrow at the ashes, he has already assumed – and rightly so – that most come from shy, teenage letters he and Kon exchange, away from the eyes of the League.

He smirks.

So, someone either knows about his underground alliances and actually works for his mom.

Or, someone suspects and is trying to expose him to the Lords.

Both are options too dangerous to consider.

He pens a letter to Bruce stating he has something to research – a possible leak, he calls it, just to cover his ass – and that he will have Kon on watch so not to worry him, before grabbing his jacket and keys and dashing out of the Manor.

He needs to make sure.

If only for his peace of mind.

Their old house has seen better days, he can tell as he parks by the gate.

The garden is a complete mess of over-grown weeds and debris, the once beautiful sculptures his mother had ordered for the house lay in pieces at his feet.

There is a scent of decay and rotting bones all over the property.

He wrinkles his nose.

Also, there is an older looking gentleman standing by the door, his eyes sure, his smile predatory.

A snake waiting in the grass to snap.

He narrows his eyes.

“Where is my mother,” he asks, his voice doing his best to imitate the cold, dangerous tones that his mentor favors. It’s better not to risk anything while facing the unknown. “I do not appreciate your humor, sir.”

The man’s smile grows wider and more cunning, as if this whole situation is so greatly amusing to him.

Tim feels himself growl.

If something happened to his mother not even Lord fucking Superman will compare to his wrath.

“She asked me to tell you she waits for you in the room of this house you loved the most, Young Detective,” the man smirks, his voice impossibly smug. Tim clenches his hands into fists when the man reaches for the door, his pose regal. “If you will follow me inside? I believe the room she is referring to is the library, is it not?”

Tim feels his own eyes grow wide, his muscles relaxing with relief at the familiar code.

“Do go ahead sir,” he says, a small smile pulling at his lips. “But you will not find my mother inside the house.”

The man turns to him, a small purse to his lips the only indication to his confusion and displeasure.

He is with his mother for sure, then, she  _is_ the type to play incomplete mind games with her allies.

Ignoring the man’s obvious curiosity, he starts to walk, allowing his feet to lead him over the rough weed and already gone stone path he had tripped over when he was naught but a child.

He knows the way like the back of his hand after all.

“My favorite part of the house is not a room but a particular patch of the gardens where the crabapple tree rests,” he says as he searches, knowing full well that the man is behind him, a few moderate steps away as it is usual in polite society – definitely the guy is with his mom – completely focused in the words leaving his mouth. “Just where the small stone bench my parents installed to rest under its shade used to be.”

“Oh?” the man asks, clearly interested. “A crabapple tree does not seem all that interesting, however.”

Tim shrugs.

“It’s where my oldest memories are,” he says simply. “I remember I used to sit there in the summer, reading a book heavier than I was until sunset and then…”

He falls silent, suddenly uncomfortable.

“And then?” the man urges, arms crossing over his chest.

“Then…” Tim tries to continue, feeling his throat tighten.

“Detective?” the man asks, tilting his head to the side curiously. “Is everything alright?”

Tim takes a deep breath, knowing Kon most likely heard the catching of his breath and is on his way there. He needs to calm down, he needs to get back to normal before the clone enters Gotham proper and alerts Batman of anything.

He needs to…

“What he wanted to say was that I would then go and try to pry him off his books,” another voice, a softer voice, a voice Tim has only heard in dreams, says behind them both, muted, steady footsteps whispering over the tall grass. “He wouldn’t want to go inside, of course, not by foot at least.”

Tim turns violently, his eyes wide, his whole body tense.

_Warm, strong hands grasped him by the armpits as he struggled, loud giggles escaping his lips._

_“Time to wash up and then dinner, champ!”_

_“No!” he protested, his small hands flailing in the air, catching the falling flowers that danced towards the ground while the summer breeze played with his dark hair. “Not home!”_

_“Yes home, young man!” the man laughed, his blue eyes crinkling with mirth. “Your mother will kill us both if we don’t get in!”_

_“Daddy! I want to fly!” Tim beamed. “Like the Robin!”_

_“Oh? Little Robin Redbreast who sat up on a three? Up went Mister Pussy Cat,”_

_Tim nodded, his little head bobbing up and down._

_“Catch me if you can!” he yelled, laughing._

_“Mew mew said the pussy cat!” his father laughed along, placing his hands over his son’s heaving chest and knees, supporting him._

_“And Robin flew away!” the child finished, his arms flailing in an imitation of wings._

“D-dad…” Tim whispers, hands shaking as they covered his trembling mouth.

Jack Drake smiles, his eyes full of warmth.

 “Is this a trick?”  the teen asked, teeth clenched.

Before him is his father, flush with health and strength.

His eyes are the color of the summer sky.

His smile is as wide as he remembers.

His voice the same baritone he can only hear in recordings.

“You still fly so high, Little Robin Redbreast,” he says, bypassing the other man who is still staring at them and approaching his son.

Tim feels how his strength fails him, how his body grows limp with shock and awe.

This is not the same man he saw a few months earlier, this is not the Jack Drake who mindlessly spent his days in Arkham.

He  _had_ heard over the grapevine that his father had disappeared from his room in the middle of the night, yet no file on the League’s mainframe held ever a hint of his whereabouts.

Jack stopped a feet away from him, his smile still warm, still wide.

The smile he could never forget.

“Yet,” the man continued softly. “You remain as pale as a snowflake, my son.”

Tim needs no more words, he is falling into his father’s chest in seconds, his arms wrapping tightly around his waist and his ear tightly pressed against his ribcage, surrounding himself with the sound of his beating heart.

“Dad,” he says over and over, hoping the word alone will hold onto his sanity. “Dad, Dad…”

Jack holds him tightly against his body, his calloused hands instantly going to the back of the teens neck, over his hair and his scalp, caressing, exploring, memorizing.

“My little snowflake,” he says back,  his voice heavy with emotion. “My Tim.”

“We could have done without the mind-games, Ra’s,” Janet snaps as she approaches the embracing pair, her cold eyes regarding their ally with reproach.

“I did want to see your son’s prodigious brain at work, Arachne,” the older man shrugs, visibly uncomfortable around such blatant displays of affection. “I must say I was not disappointed.”

“Of course,” the woman rolls her eyes, finally coming to a stop before her family and feeling pride make her chest swell.

Her cold hands reach for her son’s hair, entwining with her husband’s as they sooth their child’s fears.

Tim looks at her, smells her perfume and how it mixes with Jack’s sent of wood and leather.

And something warm and dynamic grows inside of him, coiling under his skin in a way that makes his muscles relax, his eyes sting.

He feels safe.

For the first time in so many years, Timothy Drake feels safe.

He cries.

 


End file.
